


Providence

by harmonicanoise



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angst, Brother Feels, Demon Blood, End of the World, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Supernatural Season 5, references to season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22608934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harmonicanoise/pseuds/harmonicanoise
Summary: Dean Winchester has considered every option. Every possible solution he can think of. But deep down, he knows it's too late for Sam. Sam's going to say "yes" to Lucifer, Dean thinks, and it's only a matter of time.That means there's only one option left: saying the fatal "yes" to Michael that will turn the world upside down forever.That leaves one runaway angel, one crippled old man, and one startlingly tall former junkie as the only defense between the world of now and total apocalypse.
Kudos: 15





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a bunch of chapters for this a while ago. It feels good to finally see them get the light of day! I hope you guys appreciate them :)
> 
> I'll post the first seven chapters pretty close to each other and stop there. If people really want to read more, I'll write more. If not, then I'll just leave these here for you guys to enjoy.
> 
> Btw: this first chapter has some references to Season 2 (Houses of the Holy, Ep. 13). Anyways, enjoy!

Baby purred contentedly under Dean’s fingertips like a housecat, her wheel curling under his fingers with all of the familiarity of a pet buckling under its owner’s hand. She was beautiful, no doubt about that. Dean had made sure of it when he’d put her together. He could remember that clear as day: first the crash, then the demon deal, and then came the anger, hot and surging and ever-present in Dean’s life. And here he was, racing to accept the worst deal of the century all over again. Saying yes to a goddam archangel. It wasn’t the same thing as a demon deal, not by a long shot, but it still seemed pretty damn familiar. Except now it wasn’t just about family. Well, it was, in the way that everything is, but it was more about all of those people out there trying to make a decent stab at life. Everything in Dean’s body screamed not to take that away, to let the half of the world that would die in the apocalypse keep their boring apple-pie lives, but the stronger part of him kept replaying the image of Sam-

_(but not Sam who knows maybe it was just a little bit)_

-smiling Lucifer’s pitying smile as he told Dean how the world was going to end.

_It was always going to end this way,_ Lucifer whispered in his mind. _It’s going to happen in Detroit._ He thought about what Pamela had told him in heaven: _Would it really be so bad if they came here? To paradise?_ Lisa’s face when she had begged him not to go, to stay for a beer, and he had wanted to, felt the wanting so bad it still ached in his chest. He would do this to save them. Even if he couldn’t save Sam anymore, he could still help the family he had left.

Dean wasn’t sure where exactly he was driving to. He’d only known to get as far away as he could before Sam caught up with him. He was about two-thirds of the way there when he realized he was headed to Providence, Rhode Island.

It was a general rule for hunters not to revisit the towns they’d been through, but he wasn’t going to be hunting much longer anyway, so what the hell. Besides, the last time he’d left Providence, it hadn’t been on the worst of terms exactly. He wondered if Father Reynolds was still around. It was almost fitting that it should be with him, in that church, where Dean was going to say yes.

Ghost hunts mostly blurred in Dean’s mind, but this one had stuck out. Some wacked dead preacher had started appearing to people as an “angel,” ordering them to kill all of the local dickbags in town. Sam had easily fallen under its sway, Dean remembered. He’d had a lot of faith back then. It had taken a hell of a lot of convincing to make Sam realize that the “angel” was just a pissed-off spirit with a conscience. In the end, he’d been laid to rest, and so had Sam’s naive faith in heaven. Something changed in Sam after that. There was something in his eyes, something cold, something dead. Dean had hoped to God it was only doubt.

Then when they met the real deal, Sam had been excited again. He’d tried to shake Castiel’s hand-

_can’t think his name he’ll find me leave me alone Cas_

_(please)_

-and Castiel had shrugged him off, leaving his hand hanging dumbly like a slumping marionette on a string. By then, Sam had been drinking the demon blood, but the angel’s cold distrust had brought more of that cold, dead thing back into him, stirred around by whatever poison he’d been sucking down already. What scared Dean the most was that he’d seen that look in his ( _and Lucifer’s,_ Dean thought, remembering the fake Apocalypse world) eyes not too long ago. And maybe Providence was where it had started, or maybe with that business with Ruby, whatever, it didn’t matter. Sam had summoned Lucifer anyway. That dead _thing_ was still in him and that darkness was still nestled away somewhere, Dean knew. It was only a matter of time before it reared its ugly head and brought the world down with it. The thought was horrifying, snarled like a great pus-filled gob of shit, but Dean couldn’t even bring himself to be disgusted by it. Really, it was like what the Horseman Famine had said: he felt empty. Alone. Just done with everything.

But, Dean reflected, forcing his thoughts back to Providence, that was Sam’s side of the story. His had been a bit different. No, what Dean would always remember the most clearly was when he’d been chasing down one of the murderous sons of bitches the “angel” had wanted Sam to kill in the Impala, swerving around corners, jacking the wheel in crazy gut-wrenching angles. Baby panted along with him, but Dean could tell his girl was running out of breath. The sonofabitch had a lead on him, dammit, but then Dean rounded a corner and saw his car just sitting there, stopped for no damn reason. He slammed his foot on the brake and just barely swerved out of the way of the car’s rear. Suspicious, he’d jumped out of Baby, only to stop, speechless, in the middle of the road.

A truck carrying long pipes was slanted sideways, still spilling its rolling cargo onto the asphalt. And pinned, helpless, was the murderer, a huge pipe sticking through his head. A one in a million shot. Probably more. _No, this couldn’t be luck_ , Dean had realized. _This… this was God’s will._ And for the first time, he’d looked up, wondering what or who could be looking down on him then.

Dean had tried to forget it. He’d been his cynical self for years afterwards, but every so often, the image of the pipe sticking through the windshield would haunt him. Still, he’d pretend he was still the cynic and Sam would playact as the doughy-eyed believer, but they’d already switched roles.

God’s will… Dean wasn’t so sure if it had been. He wondered, sometimes, if the strange things in his life weren’t all just done by monsters. He knew Sam had demons circling him his whole life, and once or twice, he’d begun to wonder if he’d had an angel sitting on his shoulder before. Instinctively, he glanced to the passenger seat, but of course there was nothing there but a Sam-sized empty space. Dean sighed. It was too quiet in here. He fiddled with the dial of the radio until Bob Dylan’s voice floated through.

_“Knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s door…”_

Dean’s hand dropped from the dial. Was it a coincidence? It had to be.

_(but that pipe)_

Had to be.

Whatever. It spoke to something in Dean that night, so he kept it on. It felt right. He just kept his hand on the wheel and listened to the last song he would ever hear as he pounded Baby through the last string of asphalt they would ever tread together.

_Well, if one thing’s bound to survive the apocalypse, it’s her,_ Dean thought, smiling.

* * *

It had been a long time since Dean had walked into a house of God. He thought it was ironic that people should call it that, seeing as how God had apparently gone on vacation as far away from his crazy kids as possible. He’d left, and those brats had decided to throw themselves an apocalypse like a bunch of drunk kids partying after Daddy leaves home.

If archangels were the crazy kids in this analogy, Dean thought, what was he? What were people compared to something so vast, so mind-bendingly powerful as an archangel? They didn’t live in the limits of time or death or even the gravity dragging at their feet. Dean could feel that pressure weighing down on him now as he dragged himself up the church steps, practically folding under the weight of what he was about to do. He wondered what it would feel like to fly. No more fear, no more responsibilities, no more Sam…

Dean hesitated. Tears pricked at his eyes like needles, stabbing into his chest, and suddenly Dean had the disorienting thought that he had no idea what he was doing here. He didn’t know anything anymore; sometimes he didn’t know himself. Growing up, all he’d been was Sammy’s older brother, the one that was always supposed to look out for him and keep him out of trouble. Well, he’d failed at that, so what now? What was he supposed to be?

Deep down (or not so much anymore), Dean already knew. The answer was literally right in front of him. _I’m sorry, Sammy,_ Dean thought, and pushed open the tall wood doors of the chapel.

Father Reynolds was still there, although he looked a great deal older than when Dean had seen him last. There were stress wrinkles written all over his face, ones that made shadows jump across his forehead in the candlelight. He was sitting in a pew, looking up at the altar with the sort of dreamy expression only men of God can seem to have. His lips moved soundlessly in prayer.

Dean, feeling sort of awkward and out of place, shuffled his feet on the carpeted floor. “Father?” he started.

Father Reynolds snapped out of his daydream immediately. He whipped his head around, stood up, then laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he chuckled warmly. “You startled me.”

“Do you remember me?” Dean asked, almost hoping he would say no.

Instead, recognition lit up in Father Reynold’s eyes. “Ah, yes,” he said softly. “You’re… Dean, right?”

“Guilty.”

“Well, you’re always welcome here,” he said kindly. “Please, sit.” Heart thumping in his chest, Dean went to sit in the pew next to the Father. He’d thought he’d been ready for this, but now that the moment was here, Dean could feel his palms get slick and cold with sweat.

“Are you alright?” Father Reynolds asked, and his voice was as comforting as an arm around Dean’s shoulder. “You look pale.”

“I need you to pray with me, Father,” Dean replied, trying to ignore the way his stomach was twisting itself into knots, or the stern voice of Bobby that had just pushed its way into his brain, screaming, _Don’t you do this, Boy!_ Or worse, the picture of Sammy’s disappointed face plastered to the front of his mind.

“Okay,” Father Reynolds agreed, clasping his hands and bowing his head. “What would you like to say?”

He opened his mouth, and found he didn’t know. Dean’s fight-or-flight response was going into maximum overdrive, flicking his eyes from one corner of the chapel to the other like a ball in a game of tennis. He forced himself to look ahead, to focus on the great stained glass windows in the front. There, like a sign from God, was a panel showing a great winged angel hefting his sword, looking down in disgust at the snake coiled around his feet. Then, to his right, the largest pane in the place: a great picture of God, spreading his arms as if he was about to hug all of humanity. A ray of light spilled across his face, making the gold panes seem to glow with the light of angels. Strange; the window was far away from candles and it was dark as anything outside. Still, the light shone through. The more Dean looked at it, the more he felt his heart start to slow and drum its familiar steady beat.

“I want you to pray to the archangel Michael,” he said finally. “I want you to tell him that I’m here, and I’m ready to say yes.”

If the Father thought he was acting strange, he didn’t let it show. He raised his arms to the ceiling and prayed, “St. Michael, Archangel, Guide of Christ, Angel of Peace-”

Dean suppressed a laugh. The father looked at him quizzically. “It’s nothing,” Dean told him, fighting to keep his face straight. “Continue.”

“Dean Winchester is here, and ready for your blessing. He wants to say yes.” He lowered his arms.

The candles began to flicker at once, the overhead lights sparking and spraying glass in waves to the floor. The doors of the chapel slammed open, practically breaking their hinges. The Father looked at Dean in wonder and fear.

“Find a place to hide, Padre,” Dean ordered, and Father Reynolds ran out of sight. It made him feel a little better, strangely, to say that. Like he was still saving a life, still hunting stupid creatures like wendigos or that week’s D-list vampire. It made him miss Sam.

Two angels walked stiffly through the door. They could never move normally, Dean thought dully, could they? They always walked like they literally had a stick up their butt. They stepped aside just as anally as a much more familiar angel strode ahead.

“Zachariah,” Dean snarled. Of course it had to be him. Oh, this was going to be just peachy.

“Is it true?” Zachariah’s eyes were wide in mock shock. “Has the great end-all, be-all too-good-for-the-apocalypse Dean Winchester finally decided to take some responsibility for the mess he created?”

Normally, Dean would’ve been angry, but his head now felt clear as a crystal bell. “That’s right,” he answered simply. “But you have to promise to leave Lisa and Ben Braeden, and that is B-r-a-e-d-e-n, the fuck out of this.”

_(Sam I’m sorry but it’s too late for me too late for you too you know)_

“No problem. I’ll take care of the red tape for ya. Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Zachariah grinned, rubbing his hands together. “I knew you had to get on that pony sometime, you big lug. Man, the pain in my ass you’ve been-”

“Just get it over with, Short Stuff.” Dean was quickly trying to run through the parts of his life he’d like to remember before the lights went out, something better than heaven’s greatest hits, anyway. He gave up. It was too much, too fast, too late.

“You’re the boss,” Zachariah grinned. “Or you will be, anyway.” Taking a deep breath, he raised his right hand to the heavens in bizarre imitation of a Baptist preacher and chanted, 

“ _Zod ee reh doh noh koh ah beh rah ma geh nah zod peh sah geh_ .” His voice rumbled in the deep, guttural rasp of Enochian, a language that had always reminded Dean of the sound of rock scraping against rock. Right on cue, the ground rumbled. The windows exploded, spilling their glassy innards all over the carpet. Then, a sound - more Enochian, Dean knew, but this time spoken from the true mouth of an angel. It was ironic that people thought having the “voice of an angel” was a good thing, Dean thought. The reality was more of a high-pitched wine, overwhelmingly huge in sound. It was the sound you heard right before your eardrums imploded in their sockets. Dean cupped his hands desperately to his ears, still thinking, _Yes, yes, I’m saying yes._ Light exploded into the room on all sides as suddenly as a trumpet blast proclaiming the wrath of heaven. It blossomed, grew, until Dean could feel it - no, _him_ \- poking into his soul.

The pokes became hands became light became this _feeling_ like Dean had never _felt_ before… like the rest of life he’d been asleep until he’d found that part of him that had opened his eyes, ever so gently, to what he was supposed to be. Unaware that he’d been shielding his eyes, he found himself lowering his hands in surrender. Letting the light flow through him. Become him. He felt it meet his soul and there was peace there, more than he could’ve possibly imagined, and there was exhilaration sweeping through him, shaking his bones in hollow tremors of ecstasy that took him to what he thought heaven was supposed to be. Dean felt that deep dark hole Hell had dug in him shrink away, fade in the presence of _it,_ of _him._

Of Michael.

Then Dean faded away too.


	2. Father Reynolds

“Father Reynolds?”

Reynolds jumped, jerked away from his afternoon snooze. He’d been dreaming about something, only he couldn’t remember what it was. Something about a light, thundercloud wings, and… He couldn’t remember.

The pounding on the door grew louder. “In a minute!” the Father blurted, springing to his feet. It had been three days since _he_ had been in town, and he could still feel the force of _him_ rock through him like leftover electricity from a lightning bolt. He supposed that was what the dream had been about, but somehow, he doubted it. In the dream, he hadn’t been afraid; now, after meeting _him_ , he flinched when he heard the floorboards creak.

He stepped carefully around the squeaking parts of the floor, treading lightly until his fingers slipped around the doorknob. On second thought, Reynolds fastened the little gold chain of the lock into place and rammed the door open.

He stuck one cautious eye through and slammed the door shut. His heart leaped in his chest. It was him. The one he’d been warned about had shown up on his doorstep, just like _he_ said he would. The Father fumbled around in his coat, fingers slipping neatly around his rough wood cross, clenching it above his heart. He hated to do this, but orders were orders, and _he_ was someone Father Reynolds couldn’t afford to disobey.

The pounding started again. “Father Reynolds? Please, I just want to talk,” he - or it - said. His voice sounded so sympathetic, so human, that it made the fear twisting up his spine relent just a little bit. So Father Reynolds opened the door and let the monster in.

* * *

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” the monster said. “I know it’s been years, and you probably don’t remember me, but my name is-”

“Sam Winchester,” the priest finished. “ _He_ said you would come.”

“Who?” Sam looked confused. He’d gotten older, the priest noticed suddenly, and he’d lost that goofy haircut. Sam’s forehead was creased with premature wrinkles, and his eyes had bags under them like he hadn’t slept in days. These little things caught the priest off guard; the kid looked human. Hell, he probably was. Not that it mattered.

“Come. Sit down,” Father Reynolds ordered, gesturing Sam into one of his armchairs. He went to the stove and put on a pot of coffee, more to avoid looking at Sam than anything else.

“I know why you’re here,” Reynolds said, setting out two mugs. “You want to know what happened in the chapel that night.”

“I’m looking for my brother,” Sam corrected. There was something in his voice, so raw, so human when he said that that made Reynolds hesitate. Father Reynolds was a very observant person; he could hear the guilt in Sam’s voice. It was tearing him up inside. That sort of thing couldn’t be faked.

“Please, Father, if you know where he is, you have to tell me,” Sam begged. Reynolds carried the mugs into the living room, placing one into Sam’s outstretched hands. Their fingers touched for just a moment, and it was that small gesture more than anything that convinced the Father that Sam Winchester couldn’t be who _he_ said he was. He relaxed, just slightly.

“Your brother isn’t around anymore, son,” Reynolds sighed. “But I’ll tell you what happened to Michael.” Sam nodded, his eyes bright. Eager.

Hungry.

Reynolds pushed the thought away. “I wasn’t there when it happened,” he started, “But I saw the aftermath.”

It all came back to him then. Aftermath was too little a word; the church had been utterly annihilated. It was like that tiny part of Providence, Rhode Island in a tiny state too small for its big honking country had grown its own miniature Category 5 tornado, one that glowed and spun like the sun. Houses up and down the block were reduced to rubble in seconds; the people had come out screaming, and the ones that were close enough had shrieked as their eyes melted into their sockets and their brains crumbled to gray sludge leaking out of their bloody ears, mixing with the burst remnants of their eardrums into this horrible mixture that had looked to the Father like a terrible parody of strawberry ice cream.

Reynolds shut his eyes. He had tried time and time again to push the images out, but there they stayed. He supposed they would be there forever, maybe longer.

“I suppose I should be glad I wasn’t hurt,” he continued after some time. “Dean told me to run before the angels arrived. He saved my life.”

“Did you see the angels?”

“Briefly.” Reynolds rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “There was only one at first. He wasn’t there, and then he was, like… like magic. I heard Dean call him Zachariah.” Father Reynolds looked over and saw Sam’s hands balling into fists. “I take it you’re familiar with him,” he observed. Sam said nothing, and after a while the Father continued his story.

“I ran, and there was this light…. Everywhere. People dying. After a while, I turned back to make sure Dean was alright.”

“Before this happened,” Sam interrupted, “Did he say anything to you? About me?”

“Actually, yes.” The Father paused to think. “But not about you. He was troubled. He asked me to pray to the archangel Michael, to tell him he was ‘ready.’ I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but…” As the words trailed away, the horror of what he’d done began to reveal itself like the last piece of the world’s worst jigsaw puzzle. He’d called the angel here, and the angel had killed all of those people so-

“It’s all my fault,” he realized.

“It’s not, Father, I promise,” Sam said sympathetically. “Dean would’ve found a way no matter what. That’s just the way he is.” He made it sound like he’d been exactly where Reynolds was right now, and the Father wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Maybe it was just the light, but the Father thought he saw Sam’s eyes start to water. Just as quickly, it was gone. “So what happened next?” Sam choked out. He cleared his throat. “After you ran.”

“Like I said, I headed back to the chapel,” Reynolds began again. “There were bodies everywhere. Their eyes were… they were burned black. The church was completely destroyed, except-” His voice broke in his throat.

“Except what?” Sam leaned forward anxiously.

“The altar was still standing. And the stained glass window, the one of Michael crushing the serpent, was still intact when I got there. They were gleaming like they were brand new.” The Father wiped at his eyes and found, to his surprise, a wetness there. How long had he been crying? Did he want to know?

“I looked for Dean at first,” Reynolds mumbled. “I thought he’d died. I forced myself to look at all of those burned corpses, but I didn’t find him until I turned back towards the church. I just about fainted when I saw him over there. He wasn’t- he wasn’t doing anything, really, just standing there, but I could tell something was off right away. He just wasn’t _right_.” It was hard to describe how he’d known this at the time, but he’d felt something was different about Dean. He just knew it, even though Dean’s back was to him when he had walked across the street. Like the altar, Dean looked scrubbed clean even as he stood in the piles of crumbled dust and debris at his feet. He was staring at the stained glass panel, almost hypnotized by it, the Father thought. He wondered now if it was the last thing Dean ever saw.

“I called out to him. He didn’t respond at first, but when he did, it was like he didn’t recognize the name. Like he didn’t recognize _himself._ He looked down at his hands, sort of twisted them around, and laughed.

‘It feels good to be back!’ he said. ‘Hello, Earth.’ Then he looked around, his eyes wide open like he didn’t want to miss a thing. When he saw me, I thought I was done for. See, everything about him was different, but the first thing that caught my ear was his voice; it was less gruff than it used to be. It was smooth and strong, like what you always think your father sounds like when you’re an obedient little kid. There was _power_ behind it. And the way he moved was unnatural, almost too smooth to be human. Which he wasn’t. I could feel that right away and it scared the hell out of me, if you’ll pardon the expression.” He stopped.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I’m going to need a little something stronger.” His old bones groaned as he lifted himself out of his seat, instinctively pawing open the liquor cabinet in the kitchen and setting an old glass on the counter. He sloshed some whiskey into it, not caring how much made its way in. He took a sip and felt that old good luck charm of liquid courage wash over him. Grasping the glass like a lifeline, he moved back into the living room and eased his way back into his chair, letting out an old-man sigh. He felt ancient. All of this stress was going to kill him soon.

“Anyway,” - he took a long, loud sip - “He turned to me and stared straight into my eyes. I swear it was like he was staring into my soul.”

“He was reading your mind,” Sam interrupted. “Angels can do that.”

“Good to know.” He raised his glass again and gulped down as much as he could muster. It felt warm in his chest. Strong. “So he stood there and he said to me,

‘Father Reynolds. Your faith has served you well.’ And I said, ‘Dean, are you alright?’ because it was the right thing to do, even though I knew he wasn’t. Nothing about this thing was _right._

‘Dean’s gone,’ he told me. He looked me over, kind of X-rayed me with his eyes. ‘You can call me Michael. I’m an archangel, the one you’ve been praying to all of these years.’

He stepped closer to me, and I stepped back, almost falling on my stupid ass. ‘Please, do not be afraid,’ he said. He put his hand on my arm, and this feeling of _peace_ washed over me. I fell to my knees, scraping them up bloody, but I didn’t even feel it at the time. I was starstruck, like a fucking little girl at a fucking Britney Spears concert.” Father Reynolds never normally swore, but he could feel the alcohol loosening the flap of his tongue. It was starting to loll rather pleasantly. _Have I had enough? Well, one can never be too sure,_ he thought, and downed the rest of the glass. “Bring the bottle over for me, would you please? Yes, thank you, sir… It’s times like these when I understand why half of my flock roams in bars every Friday night.” He chuckled. “Anyway, where were we?”

“He touched you,” Sam supplied.

Father Reynolds raised his eyebrows, but he wasn’t quite drunk enough to say anything in response. “Right, right. He wiped away all of my doubts, all of my fears in an instant. It was just peace. Bliss. When he let go of me, I wished he’d just kept holding on forever; maybe I still do. Anyway, he turned to me and said:

‘Now that I have your attention, I want to talk to you about something.’ I just nodded my head ‘cause my lips felt sewn shut. ‘When Sam Winchester comes to your door, tell him to say yes.’

“By then, my lips had unglued themselves and my jaw had dropped to the floor. ‘Sam Winchester?’ I asked. ‘Why?’

‘Because he started the apocalypse,’ he said. He might’ve been talking about the weather the way he said it. ‘He’s a monster, just like my brother. Keep that in mind when you see him, Father. And tell him I’ll be waiting for him. Because when he says yes, I’ll be ready.’

“Then he just disappeared, like he hadn’t been there in the first place. I haven’t seen him since.” Reynolds paused. He looked down at his glass, decided it looked a little too empty, and sloshed a little more luck into his cup. “Sometimes I still think I dreamed it. But that stained glass window is still standing, locked away with the altar in a storage space on Forest Street. I’ve been there a few times. They’re still perfectly clean, almost glowing… You know I bashed in the window with a golf club once? I came back yesterday and it was good as new.”

“Was that all he said to you?” Sam interrupted, barely listening. The guilt Reynolds had sensed earlier was evident on his face, etched deep into the lines of his skin.

“That’s all, folks.” Father Reynolds chuckled. His glass felt lighter for some reason. He looked down and it was empty, boom, like a trick in a magic show.

_Better get the show on the road_ , he thought deliriously. Liquid luck spilled through his fingers and landed pretty much everywhere but the target. Ah, he’d never be a marksman, but there were plenty more jobs in the circus.

“Want some?” He held up the beautiful, slender neck of his Lady Luck, but Sam shook his head. “Please. I can tell you need it.” He shook her, just a little bit, and Sam relented. The Father remembered miraculously that he had put another glass around here somewhere, yes, here it was, and now both of them were going to have a good old time at the circus. The glass made a pleasant sort of clink when the Lady bent to meet it, and a satisfying thud when it slid to its place on Sam’s side of the table. Sam sipped a little at first, then gulped, then reached for more. And so went the dance from hand to hand, glass to glass, but the Lady was handy, wasn’t she? Everyone said so.

She was considerably thinner by the time Father Reynolds had screwed up the courage to ask, “Was it true, what _he_ said?”

Sam giggled stupidly. “Said what?”

“That you started the apocalypse.”

Sam’s hand froze inches away from the bottle. He’d stopped pouring it into his glass three rounds ago and started chugging it like mother’s milk. _What a circus freak._

“It’s complicated.” He laughed again, but it sounded forced. “This bitch tricked me into it. But I dunno, maybe it was me, maybe it was her, it doesn’t matter now.” He chuckled weakly. “We’re all going to die bloody pretty soon.”

Reynolds half didn’t want to continue, but the Lady was making his tongue dance all on its own. “And what he said about saying ‘yes,’ what does it mean?”

This time, Sam really did take a swig. “It means a winged dick wants to ride me.”

Father Reynolds went into hysterical peals of laughter. Sam laughed, too, clapping a hand on Reynolds’ shoulder as Reynolds clapped one on Sam’s, each person trying to support each other but accidentally tipping themselves disastrously towards the floor. Tears of laughter trekked down the Father’s face and he leaned back into his chair before he literally almost fell into his cup. The image of that set him off again, and it was a long time before the two of them decided to drink in silence.

“But whaddya mean by that?” Reynolds asked thickly, once the fun was over. “You mean you’re supposed to be like Dean? Like this ‘yes’ thing turns you into an angel?”

“More like invites them in.” Sam took another gulp. “You say yes, they book the Presidential Suite.” He meant to point at his brain, missed, then was finally able to jab a finger against his forehead.

“So Dean’s still in there somewhere.”

“I hope so,” Sam replied. “That’s what I’m betting on.” Another swig went down the hatch.

“That begs the question,” the Father continued. “Dean’s got Michael. Who wants you?”

Sam didn’t answer. Reynolds waited for a long time (or whatever that felt like in his alcohol-soaked brain), but the kid didn’t want to crack.

“You know, Dean couldn’t stand up against heaven,” Reynolds started again. “What makes you think you can?”

“Oh, it’s not heaven that wants me,” Sam said, suddenly serious. His voice dropped to a low whisper. “Unless you count them wanting me dead.”

“Then who?” But even as he said this, in Father Reynolds’ drug-addled mind, he was starting to put the pieces together. An angel not associated with heaven… Michael’s brother…

“You don’t mean Lucifer.” Father Reynolds looked down at his hands, almost scoffed at himself. He waited for Sam to contradict him, but Sam was silent.

“No way.”

“I wish.” Sam nursed the bottle between his fingers, lifted the Lady’s neck to his lips again, and breathed her in.

“What’s he like?” Reynolds asked in a hush.

Sam put her down, wiping aimlessly at his lips. “Powerful. Terrifying. Kind of annoying.” He giggled. “He pretended to be my girlfriend for a while.”

“No shit.” The Father let out a sputtering, sad sort of laugh. “Was he hot?”

“ _She_ was.” Sam’s eyes misted over again, and Reynolds guessed he’d hit a hard subject. “You know, like the way she was before she died.”

“Oh. I’m so, so, sorry, Sam,” Reynolds sympathized. “Lucifer’s a fucked up son of a bitch.”

“All winged dicks are. He just happens to be the biggest, baddest winged dick on the planet,” Sam agreed. “I probably can’t stop him, but dammit, as long as I’m still breathing I’m gonna try.”

Father Reynolds sloshed more liquid into his glass, then Sam’s, and raised the bottle. “Hey, I’ll drink to that.”

“Hear, hear.” Then the world tipped sideways and everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam had just raised the glass to his lips when the Father keeled over, snoring before his head hit the floor. Sam smirked, looked down at his drink, and knocked it back. Was it dark out already? The window said it was. Whatever. Sam wasn’t in any shape to drive, anyway. He pushed himself up, groaning as he saw the room do cartwheels around him.  _ Okay, bad plan,  _ Sam thought, and slumped onto the floor. He was starting to feel deliciously heavy, like his arms were trying to pull themselves into the carpet. He closed his eyes and-

_ -What was that? _

_ A scream, probably definitely not _

_ ”SAMMY!” _

_ Dean’s. _

_ The thought ripped through Sam’s mind like a chainsaw, forcing his eyes open. There was nothing to see; there was darkness in all directions. It was Dean’s voice, he knew it was, but where was he? _

_ More sounds… it didn’t fit, not at all, but the sound of waves lapping against the shore in the distance. Sam began to walk. Louder and louder it came, until Sam could hear the roar of the waves echo in his ears like a conch shell held up to a microphone. Sam had never really liked conch shells. When he was younger he’d picked one up and been afraid to hold it to his ear, afraid something would crawl out of it and _

_ (pinch) A hand fell on his shoulder. Sam almost screamed, turning around and sloppily holding up his fists. Dad would’ve screamed at him if he’d seen his poor stance, but then, he liked to scream about a lot of things. It was something Dean did sometimes, like Father, like Son, let the cycle continue and leave little Sammy behind, why don’t you? Anyway, he had no idea why he was thinking this when he was looking at _

_ Lucifer standing in front of him, a small smile on his lips. Wearing the face of some poor bastard, although Sam could see it was starting to wear a little thin. Crusty red scabs were littered around his temple, dotting his forehead like rubies adorning a king’s crown. His face was drawn, white. Sam could see little flakes of skin poking up from his cheeks. _

_ “Hello, Sam,” he said gently. Sam half-expected his voice to be a rasp, but it was as sweet and smooth as ever. _

_ “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” Sam slurred. His mind still felt a little confused. It was dragging, caught like a branch in a muddy stream. It felt like he’d been drinking _

(poison)

_ Alcohol. Nothing more. _

_ “Always the smart one, Sam,” Lucifer replied sarcastically. “You’re still a little drunk, aren’t you?” He tutted. “My my, you do like to overindulge yourself, don’t you? Try picking up some demon blood next time. It’ll come in handy pretty soon.” _

_ Anger spiked red hot in Sam’s bones. He lunged for Lucifer’s neck, but felt his body stiffen against him, binding his face and neck and arms in a clamp tighter than iron. _

_ Lucifer was barely paying attention to him. His mind seemed to have gone elsewhere for a second. “Blood…” he intoned. His eyes grew misty, far away, as if he was picturing something just over the horizon. “Yes, all in good time, Sam.” He turned towards him and his eyes cleared. “But that’s not why we’re here.” _

_ Sam felt the pressure loosen around his lips. “It’s not?” he spat, putting as much contempt as he could muster into the two syllables. _

_ Lucifer didn’t react. “I wanted to show you something,” he said. “Please, walk with me.” _

_ The bind around his body didn’t loosen; if anything, it grew tighter. It moved Sam’s legs for him, made him walk calmly alongside Satan himself even as Sam tried with every breath to move an elbow, a thumb, something. His lips were locked again. _

_ “You know, this is kind of what it will be like. When we’re together,” Lucifer remarked amiably. “Not together in  _ that  _ way, right, but you know what I mean.” _

_ Sam’s mouth let go again. “Go to hell,” he seethed. “That’ll never happen.” _

_ “You know, you keep saying that. You really should stop. It’ll just make you look like more of an idiot when the time comes.” _

_ “It won’t.” Sam was glad to hear how steady his voice was, seeing as how he felt more terrified right now than he had in the past year. Dean had always been by his side during times like this; now that he was gone, Sam could feel that familiar dark pit start to open inside him. Dean was the one who normally gave Sam the strength to keep it locked away _

(except when he opened it)

(like the Gate)

_ And right now, Sam was terrified and angry but most of all, he felt weak. He felt pathetic as his body walked along without him, taunting him with every step. He wasn’t strong enough. Maybe he’d never be. But Dean was gone now, Dean left, so now it was Sam’s turn to be the strong one. Too bad there wasn’t anyone around to be the other _

(weaker?)

_ Sibling. Sam shrunk away at the thought. He would’ve shuddered if he could have. He was getting dangerously close to thinking like the way he had in the old days, with Ruby, and those were times he never wanted to go back to. _

_ By the time they finally stopped, the roar of the waves had become almost overpowering. Lucifer had to shout over it to speak. _

_ “Over there.” He pointed. “Look.” _

_ Sam strained his eyes in every direction, but could see nothing but a thick black soup. But he found the more he focused on it, the more he could see something  _ moving  _ in the floor, pushing the soup in curling motions that rose and fell forever. They were waves, he realized, and suddenly he could see them clearly. They were huge, at least double the size of your regular garden-variety crest. They seemed to rise, rise, rise for an eternity, stretching like the mouth of a viper about to devour its prey before crashing back to the murky depths of the sea. Sam looked down and saw he was standing on rocks black as coal. Black rocks on a black sea under a black sky with the stars sucked out. The darkness was enough to drive a man insane. _

_ And out there, he heard it again. _

_ “SAMMY!” _

_ It was- _

_ It was Dean. _

_ “DEAN!” Sam screamed. “I’M HERE!” _

_ “SAM?” He saw a ripple about twenty yards straight ahead. Then the waves rose like grasping arms reaching through the darkness and Dean was gone. Sam had just about lost hope when he saw Dean surface a good ten feet away. _

_ “Dean!” Sam shouted over the waves. _

_ “Sam, I don’t have much time,” Dean sputtered. His eyes were wild, huge. His skin was pale, his face gaunt and thin. He was struggling, his arms punching out in wild strokes as if desperately searching for something to keep him afloat. Every few seconds he sank and the water caved up to his chin, but Dean would always find the strength to kick himself back up. _

_ At the sight of him, all of the anger Sam had boiling in him bubbled to the surface. Then Sam looked at him, really looked at him and felt sadness suppress it, filling him like sand in a sieve. He wished he could be angry with Dean, he really did. But all Sam could think as he gazed out upon the dark water was that he wished he was drowning with him. _

_ Lucifer seemed to catch the thought. “You can’t jump in,” he told Sam off-handedly. “The water will just spit you back out. This is all in Dean’s head, not in yours.” _

_ “Shut up,” Sam spat. He would deal with Lucifer in a minute. But first, he had family business to attend to. _

_ “Dean-” Sam had started out fully intending to scream at him, pull his hair out in frustration, but instead he heard his voice break. _

_ “Dean, how could you do this to me?” Sam wasn’t sure if Dean heard him or not; the waves carried walls of sound with them. _

_ Sam wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Dean say, “I had to.” But he couldn’t have; it was too loud to tell. He knew Dean would never say anything so stupid. He didn’t  _ have _ to do anything; no, he  _ chose _ to be Michael’s butt puppet. And here was Sam, cleaning up his mess. As usual. _

There it is,  _ Sam thought.  _ The anger’s back again. Well, nice to see you again, you dick.  _ He hadn’t really meant that last thought about Dean, had he? No, the plain and simple truth was that he missed his brother. And here he was, drowning, and Sam was feeling sorry for himself. What a pathetic waste of space. Well, no longer; Sam was going to get him out of there and they were going to find an end to this motherfucking apocalypse once and for all. _

_ Sam forced himself to think. Michael was a monster, from what he’d seen. Twice as bad as your average Joe Blow wendigo but with ten thousand times the juice. To save Dean, Sam thought, he would have to hunt him, which would be easier said than done. Hunting down a B-list ghost was a little different than finding the archangel Michael himself. He forced himself to clear his mind anyway, to go back to the basics. What was the first thing they always did when they went hunting? _

_ Right. First, they had to find the thing. _

_ “Dean, do you know where Michael is right now?” Sam shouted over the waves. _

_ “No!” Dean looked around wildly again. “Sam, I don’t have much time - you need to let me go. I’m sorry, Sam. I wish this had another ending-” _

_ Dean looked to his right. A huge wave, maybe twenty feet high, moved silently towards them from the distance. Dean looked at Sam, then at the wave, and then the wave was everywhere and Sam’s world shifted. _

_ He found himself at the old house in Lawrence, just the way it was when he’d lived there for six short months years ago. Lucifer appeared in the doorway behind him. _

_ Sam turned. He felt crushed by what he’d seen. Never in his life had he seen Dean give up. Well, it looked like there was a first for everything, and now he knew Dean was going to suffer horribly for it. _

_ “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Lucifer sighed. “I just wanted to show you what Michael does to his vessels. Why we’ve got to stop him.” _

_ “Bullshit. You would do the same thing,” Sam retaliated. _

_ “Sam, I would never hurt you.” Lucifer’s voice turned soft, pleading. “I mean, I could, but I’m not like Michael. I don’t punish people for doing the right thing, Sam. I only give them the opportunity to see the other side. And if they turn, then…” Lucifer shrugged. _

_ Sam was about to reply but the image of Lilith’s dead body flashed through his mind quicker than lightning. The shock of it made goosebumps travel up his arms. _

_ “You know, I almost feel sorry for Dean,” Lucifer was saying. “I mean, you’ve got to hand it to him; the guy was fighting tooth and nail to keep his corner of Michael’s consciousness. But it’s only a matter of time before he slips away. You know what happens next, Sam? Dean’s gone. There’s nothing but pure 100 percent Michael riding your brother’s bones.” _

_ “He dies?” _

_ “Not exactly.” Lucifer cocked his head, considering the concept. “It’s more like he’s locked away. If Michael’s feeling generous, he’ll feed him a good memory or two to keep him occupied. If he isn’t, then…” Lucifer seemed to be searching for a way to describe it. “Nothing,” he said at last. “He’ll know nothing. He’ll feel nothing at all for an eternity.” _

_ Sam could feel fear start to churn in the pit of his stomach. He could see Dean’s face bobbing just above the waves, slipping under then pushing up. He saw how cold and pale Dean had been, how terrified he’d sounded when he’d called out to Sam. _

_ “Oh, Sam,” Lucifer sighed. “I can feel your fear.” _

_ He took a step closer. Sam tried to push back, but his legs remained firmly in place. Useless. Pointless evil unmoving PATHETIC fucking things locking blocking _

(accepting?)

_ In Satan’s hands. Lucifer moved even closer, close enough to pull Sam into an embrace if he wanted to; close enough to plunge a knife into his stomach and keep on digging. His hand dropped casually on Sam’s shoulder. _

_ “Don’t be afraid,” Lucifer whispered. _

_ The room shifted again. This time, they were standing before a simple wooden crib in what Sam supposed his nursery must have been like in his time there. The room was simple, sparsely decorated save for the ornately carved handles of the crib. It was empty. _

_ Sam turned, but Lucifer was gone. The restraints on his arms and legs had disappeared along with him. This struck him as extremely suspicious. Sam went to the door, opened it, and saw nothing but blackness. He shut it just as quickly. _

_ There wasn’t much to look at in the room besides for the crib and the mobile spinning dully above it. It rocked back and forth in some unfelt breeze, its strings swaying like long, thin spider’s legs dancing above the tiny pillow where Sam’s head would have rested. He moved closer to it and saw that there was a tiny indentation there, exactly the size and shape of a baby’s head. Stranger still, there was something - no, someone - bulging underneath the covers. Sam’s fingers stretched, shaking, and tore the cover away. _

_ He sighed in relief. There was nothing there but a tiny spot of blood, not much bigger than the length of a penny. But as he watched the stain grew, spreading slowly through the white sheets like the pee that wets the bed of a terrified child screaming in his sleep, except this didn’t have that sharp tang of urine. No, it smelled of rust and death and….  _ power _. _

_ Sam inhaled sharply. It was the smell of demon blood. _

_ He backed away from the bed, slamming against the wall. His hands scraped numbly against his jeans. All of those old feelings came flooding back like water breaking through a dam, or _

(light through a Gate?)

_ His nose worked against him, inhaling the scent of the blood like a fine perfume, turning it over and over again in his mind until he shook with the effort of holding himself back. Dean’s voice sounded in his head, a leftover hallucination from the old times, before… _

_ Before the Gate. _

_ Dean leaning over his bed as Sam sat, pinned, helpless. He’d glared at him with eyes that spit venom and lips curled back from his teeth in a predator’s snarl. How strange, how unlike Dean he’d been. But he’d also been right. _

_ “You’re a monster. You’ve always been a monster,” he’d spat. “And you only feel right when you’re sucking down more poison.” _

_ Sam forced himself to breathe in short, thin gasps. The blood was pooling out of the crib now, spilling thick waterfalls through its gaps. The smell was intoxicating in itself; oh, Sam could write thousands of pages describing it and still not crack the surface of how strong, how pure that scent was. He could see it in his mind’s eye, clotted and imperfect, human blood twisted by the intoxicating strength of hell. Imperfect but perfect in every way. When it passed through Sam before, in the old days, he remembered the rush of it, how it met something inside him and became perfect, like Sam’s body was a purifier pushing out the bad and leaving the cream of the crop behind. Or maybe, Sam thought hazily, pushing out the good and leaving the bad to rot. _

_ The blood spilling from the crib flowed quicker, spilling cups then quarts then gallons of the stuff into the floor, sticking to the carpet in clumps and pooling, gaining on the spot where Sam stood. He shifted uncomfortably towards the door. How easy it would be, he thought, for him to stretch out a hand and touch it. To cup it in his hands, bring it to his lips and feel it work its pounding dance through his bones? To feel that ecstasy slip down his throat and coil, snakelike, cool but somehow excruciatingly hot above his heart? _

_ Hardly aware he was doing it, Sam felt his knees bend. His fingers brushed the puddle of blood growing on the floor. He lifted them, studying them, marveling at how the light reflected off the slick liquid on his fingertips. His mouth watered in anticipation. _

(only feel right when you’re sucking down more poison)

_ Sam snapped out of his haze. He brushed his hands hurriedly against his jeans again and bolted for the door. He tried to turn the knob but it seemed frozen in place. He tried again and again, slamming his weight against the door. Nothing gave. Sam looked over his shoulder and he saw that the blood was pooling rapidly towards his feet, oh God it would reach him soon and he wouldn’t be able to resist much longer. He’d drown in it and then he’d really be a monster, and the blood was only two inches away now, one, and he felt it lap against the soles of his shoes almost lovingly like the gentle lick of a dog’s tongue. His heart climbed in his chest, half in fear and half in excitement. The blood rose rapidly, hugging his ankles now and then his shins and legs and hands and arms and Christ Jesus God it was at his chin- _

Sam woke with a start. Then he winced, holding a hand up to his head. One hell of a headache was starting to brew in his skull. His bleary eyes caught sight of a whiskey bottle lying a few inches away. He grabbed it, poured a swig of it down his throat. It didn’t help much. Sam could already feel the bile rising in his chest, although he knew from experience it wouldn’t make its way out for at least another hour. Damn, it’d been a while since he’d been hungover this bad. He wondered what kind of cheap whiskey Dean had gotten this time-

The line of thought stopped there. Dean was gone. This was somebody else’s whiskey. The simple truth of that hit Sam like a bullet train, and he felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. Sam looked back down at the bottle

(only feel right when you’re sucking down more poison)

And put it back on the floor. He’d been dreaming about something, he thought, something about blood and darkness and

Dean. Dean was drowning in his own mind, and heaven and Earth be damned if Sam wasn’t going to pull him out. Nothing, not even an archangel, was going to separate him from his brother. So what if Dean chose to leave? So what if he’d run away? Sam knew, and he thought Dean knew somewhere deep down, that leaving the Winchester family wasn’t that easy. Something always pulled you back into the fold. Sam and his dad had tried to run away in the past; now, Sam guessed it was Dean’s turn. Though he had picked one hell of a bad time to do it.

Father Reynolds’ gentle snores filled the room with a sort of gentle ambiance. Sam stumbled forward and nearly tripped over his legs, which were stuck out like awkward tree trunks sunk into the depths of the living room rug. Sam looked down and saw that the priest was clutching a rough wooden cross over his heart, as if warding off evil even in his dreams. A glint in his coat caught Sam’s attention; he carefully moved it aside and saw the familiar shine of a gun poke through.

A sarcastic smirk fell upon Sam’s lips. “The plot thickens,” he snorted. He’d pegged Reynolds as a sweet old man, but it seemed that he had more Hunter in him than Sam had given him credit for. Then again, the Apocalypse did strange things to people. Michael did strange things to people.

That thought brought Sam’s pounding brain back into focus. He gritted his teeth and set off for the Father’s bathroom, which was thankfully in plain sight just down the hallway. He drank a couple of cups of sink water and popped a few Tylenol from the medicine cabinet along with it. A little guiltily, Sam stuffed the rest of the bottle in his coat pocket. He didn’t think the Father would care too much about one missing bottle with the apocalypse on the horizon.

Once the pounding subsided, he ventured out the door. Sam groaned. The sun was like fire in his eyes, bright and piercing. He looked around for his car and stumbled into it, attempting to cover his eyes with his right hand and feeling like he needed to-

Sam opened the car door just in time to vomit out of it, spraying bile all over the driveway. He thought idly that his mouth tasted like the business end of a dumpster truck. Then his eyes rested on the darkest part of the car, the passenger seat that remained partially in shadow in that moment. The space where he should’ve been sitting and Dean should’ve been driving, cracking cheesy jokes at Sam’s expense and listening to Led Zeppelin at full volume. Now, the only thing that sat in the passenger seat was a lonely strip of white paper, which read:   


ALIENS AMONG US? BRIGHT LIGHT STUNS PROVIDENCE CITIZENS

By Rita Smith

_ A bright light stunned the Providence residents of Witcham Street at approximately 9:04 P.M. last night in an event some have rendered unexplainable. The destruction of twelve homes in a three-block radius and twenty reported deaths followed the incident. According to a source at the coroner’s office that wishes to remain unnamed, the victims appeared to have “their eyes burned into their skulls” and “their brain[s] melted” despite their skin remaining whole on the outside. No statement has been given as of yet from the Providence Police Department. This has prompted a growing number of believers in Rhode Island to question if this incident could have been the work of something outside our understanding- _

  
The article cut off there. It was a snippet from the _Providence News,_ a newspaper that Sam had picked up completely by chance. He’d been following Dean for a while before Dean had pulled off some tricky maneuvers in Ohio (by then Sam had been so sleep-deprived he’d nearly thrown his wheel out the window) and lost him. Cass was still looking all over the country; Sam still hadn’t heard from him yet. He’d known that Dean was heading out East, but had no  idea how far he was going to go. Then, like a bolt of lightning, a random thought popped into his head:

_ He’s going to church to see the Angels again. To church to see the angels. To see the angels and the church and the light and the Island and… _

Sam had pulled off the road, bringing his car to a screeching halt. It stopped later than he’d liked it to; he had been driving an old junker from Bobby’s yard, seeing as how Dean had taken the Impala. The words had run together in his head, too jumbled to make sense.  _ The Island?  _ Sam had wondered. In his head, he heard the capital “I” clearly.  _ What does that mean? _

_ The church and the light and the Island where the Angel spoke _

_ (!! THE ANGEL !!) _

It had seemed important that Sam remember this, but he’d racked his brains and came up empty. It felt similar to when the visions used to come to him, huge and bright and screaming, ushering in one monster of a headache when all was said and done. Sam could feel one brewing like distant thunder right then.

_ (ANGEL ISLAND IT SPOKE TO YOU SAM It did at the church) _

_ Shut up and let me think!  _ Sam had screamed at the voice, failing to recognize the irony. An angel speaking to him at an Island? At…

At Rhode Island?

It would make sense, he had supposed, if Dean went there. It was the only place where Dean had encountered anything like a religious experience, what with what Dean told him about the pipe and all… And Sam remembered the angel very well. Except it hadn’t been an angel at all, only a man, and it didn’t matter anyway, when all was said and done. That man had given Sam something like kindness when he came to him. The real angels he’d met had given exactly the opposite. With the exception of Castiel, of course. Kind of.

Although it was a shot in the dark, Sam couldn’t see what other options he had left. He’d picked up the newspaper when he’d gotten close and had been surprised to see he’d been right. He had only wished it were aliens he was driving towards.

In the present, Sam’s eyes flew up from the paper and looked over to the road. Before anything else, he had to tell Bobby what was going on. He had to hope Castiel would pop up to report to home base (Bobby’s) sometime soon, if he hadn’t already heard the news over what Dean liked to call “angel radio.” So he backed out, turned, and made his way down the road again.

The streets of Providence were devastated. It was as if a miniature hurricane had landed, swept through one block, and decided to call it a day. The scattered remnants of houses lay littered on the ground, burnt to cinders; all that was left of the fine suburban cars neatly parked in two-car garages were scattered bits of twisted metal. The air seemed coated in dust. A thick smoke rose from a few deserted places, remnants of whatever holy fire had scorched this place. He saw a woman crying alone, holding a screaming child to her hip, and the sight of it hurt worse than the stinging bite the whiskey had left in his temple. 

There was no better time, then, for Sam’s eyes to finally fall upon the Impala still parked dutifully next to the church. She was dinged up, but otherwise she looked alright. A happy grin cracked Sam’s cheeks, and he walked up, sliding a hand along her now dusty exterior. He could just about hear Dean’s protests in his ears, whining about how he’d have to scrub her for hours  before he could get the dust off.  _ Baby, you deserve that and more,  _ Sam thought, and had the bizarre urge to hug one of her side mirrors.

Instead, he hopped into the driver’s seat. Like Dean had done a week earlier, he took pains not to look over to the passenger side. The keys were nowhere to be found, probably still with Dean somewhere. Sam supposed he’d ask for them once he got Dean back. In the meantime, guilty as Sam felt about it, he’d had to find the familiar wires hidden in the car’s interior and strike them once, twice, until he heard her purr to life. The sound was as comforting as a lullabye. Sam let the door slam shut and put her into drive. She sputtered, jumped, and eventually found her way back to the ravaged streets of Providence. They passed by the storage compartments on Forest Avenue; Sam had a quick glance at them out the window and decided to put it out of his mind entirely. Then he picked up speed and he and Dean’s Baby flew out into the harsh light of the new day.


	4. Chapter 4

Michael stood in front of a mirror, sliding a hand over his new face. He was disgusted by the stubble that he found there, the dirt and grime that coated Dean’s oily cheeks. How could anyone stand to live in such filth? Of course, he’d seen the humans as nothing more than monkeys flinging around their own feces before, thousands of years ago, but it was disheartening to see that they hadn’t changed that much since then. Their sense of taste certainly hadn’t improved.

And so the first thing on his agenda after sending his messenger to Sam Winchester was to find a shower. The one at the local gym had been just fine after he’d stretched out his wings a bit, but he hadn’t had to do much, anyway; the staff seemed to have deserted the place to get a good long look at the aftereffects of his presence outside. After that, it had been a simple matter of locking the doors and summoning a bottle of shampoo, soap, and a washcloth to his waiting hands. Then he’d stripped down, stared at his vessel in its entirety. It was well-built, and that was something. At the very least, Dean was strong. Battle scars laced his body in places, and Michael laid his hand upon them and made them whole again. For some insane, asinine reason, he heard Dean cry out at this; he seemed to think of the scars as trophies, or decorative tattoos like the Devil’s Trap blossoming on his skin. Michael touched that, too, and let it fade away to nothing. These scars may have been a part of Dean, but they would not be a part of him.

That being done, Michael turned the shower knob with a simple twist of his will and let the cold water flow over and through him. He took a good, long look at the soap in his hands and began to scrub.

Michael could have purified his vessel with the snap of a finger, but where was the fun in that? No, Michael enjoyed the feeling of washing Dean Winchester from his skin. He did it for Dean’s benefit as much as his own; with each scrub, he proved to him again and again that this body was  _ his  _ and  _ his only.  _ To use a human metaphor, he felt like Neil Armstrong sticking his flag into the moon, claiming that this was America’s spot, dammit, now and forever. And it was working, too; Dean had pretty much stopped fussing around in the back of his head. Michael could feel him slipping into the murky waters beyond consciousness. A few more scrubs should do the trick. And maybe a shave.

He stepped out of the shower. A rack of towels lay nearby and he took one, rubbing it slowly, methodically, into all of the folds of his new skin. He slid it over his toes and remembered the old story of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet; it made a thin laugh rise in his throat. Dean had been anything but a disciple to him.

Once again, he looked around until he found a pack of razors and shaving cream hidden in one of the gym lockers. He took them and went to work. The long, thin strokes of the blade soothed him, and he let them guide his hand until he felt the razor bite into his neck. Michael put it down, stared at the red blemish forming on his otherwise perfect skin. He never understood why God had bothered with giving His creatures blood. It was so… messy. Like humans in general, he supposed. He ran a finger along the cut and felt it seal, become whole, perfect again. Then he sighed, picked up the washcloth, and began to scrub once more.

He must have showered at least five or six times. When he was finished, he looked at his hands and found them glowing with his presence. Whatever was left of Dean was gone.

_ Goodbye Dean,  _ Michael thought.  _ And good riddance. _


	5. Chapter 5

Loneliness ripped at Sam all the way back. He’d practically raced his way into Bobby’s driveway, almost torn the door from its hinges in his haste to see him again.

“Sam!” Bobby cried. He rolled over to him in his familiar old wheelchair and offered him a beer, the closest thing to a hug he could manage right now. “Thank God you’re alright. You gave me one hell of a scare after Dean vanished…” Bobby glanced behind him, as if Dean was crouching behind Sam’s shoulder ready to shout,  _ Surprise! _ “Where is Dean, anyway?”

The warm feeling growing in Sam’s chest shriveled and died. “Bobby…”

Before he could answer, a rustle of wings filled the room and the angel Castiel popped in with all of his usual flair. His face was drawn tight, serious as usual, but a great weariness seemed to have dropped into it. His trenchcoat hung from his frame in long, wrinkled folds, slumped over his shoulders like a drunk bum catching a piggyback ride.

“I take it Sam told you,” Castiel stated immediately. He was never one for smalltalk.

“Told me what?” Bobby’s eyes were wide, confused. Sam hated to see the hurt hidden in them, like deep down, Bobby already knew. “Where have you been, Cass? You’ve been gone for a week. The least you could do was answer a damn phone call,” Bobby spat.

“I am sorry. I was… busy. I got your voicemails, but that is besides the point.” Castiel brushed the subject aside with a careless wave. “Sam, you need to tell him.”

Bobby’s face turned to his. Sam found his throat was very dry, his tongue paper-thin in his mouth. He took a swig of beer that did nothing to calm his nerves.

“Dean… Dean, he said…” Sam could already see the disappointment on Bobby’s face, and could not bring himself to go on.

“Did that stupid sonofabitch say yes?”

Sam nodded and took another swig.

Bobby shook his head, unbelieving. “Dammit, Dean,” was all he said. It was all he needed to say. Both Sam and Castiel heard the name break in his throat as he said it, and that spoke worlds.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed like Sam had been saying that a lot lately. Castiel said nothing. But Sam could see the guilt written on the angel’s face, the defeat he saw written in his eyes, even though he suspected Castiel already knew.

“For the past week, I’ve been looking for a place where I could hide where Michael couldn’t find me,” Castiel explained finally, more to break the silence than anything. “I could find none. My conclusion is that the only way I can get away from Michael is in death.”

“So what are you going to do now?” Sam asked. Castiel was a renegade on Heaven’s Most Wanted list; it was unlikely that Michael would want to leave him be, especially considering how high up in the ranks Castiel had been once. The thought of Dean killing his own friend was almost too much for Sam to handle, and he felt his hands grip his beer, hard, almost until it began to splinter beneath his grip.

“I’m going to beg him to take me back,” Castiel declared. That had taken the both of them by surprise; he saw Bobby’s eyebrows raise just slightly.

“You’re going to see less of me in person,” Castiel continued, “But I’ll try to say as much as I can in dreams. I have to get back into Michael’s good graces. It’s the only chance we have of saving Dean.”

“What do you think you can do, talk to him?” Sam replied.

“Not at first, no. That would only get me killed,” Castiel explained matter-of-factly. “But I’ll be there for him. I’ll tell you when the time is right when to approach him.”

Sam looked at him curiously. “You think he can be saved?”

Castiel sighed. “No.” He cast a pitying eye towards Bobby. “But he does.”

Bobby shrugged. “You’re supposed to be the one with the faith.”

Sam could have sworn he saw the barest twitch of a smile appear at Castiel’s lips. “To tell the truth, Sam, I honestly don’t know. I only know that I revolted for something. I believed in your brother Dean, and I still do. You Winchesters have a way of surprising me.”

Sam looked at Castiel and saw, for the first time, not just an angel, but a friend. He raised his beer in willing salute. “I’ll drink to that.”

Bobby reached into his desk and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He poured some into both, offered some to Castiel, and was shocked to see him actually take it and hold it awkwardly into the air by the fingertips in poor imitation of Sam’s toast. Both downed the alcohol without flinching.

Castiel let out a long sigh. “I must go,” he announced. “I can’t stay here much longer. No doubt Michael’s already assigned a few angels to track me down and kill me.” But for some reason he paused. His head tilted back in an almost childlike motion, his eyes rolling up to the  ceiling. “I shouldn’t have had so much faith in him,” Castiel murmured, as if offering up a prayer towards heaven. Towards Michael, maybe. “Maybe I’m an idiot for still having faith in you, Dean. But I’m not giving up yet. You’re going to get out whether you want to OR NOT!”

Both Sam and Bobby jumped. The force of the words rumbled through the house like thunder, shaking the ground underneath their feet. The whiskey glasses jumped in their rings of condensation and just as quickly were still. Sometimes Sam forgot how powerful Castiel was; it was something he wasn’t going to forget now. Presently he saw the angel turn towards him, fury in his eyes.

“Don’t try anything stupid,” he ordered. Then, with a flap of his wings, he was gone.

Bobby echoed Castiel, letting a long sigh fall from his lips. He poured an extra shot of whiskey. “Want some?” He waved the bottle in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Father Reynolds.

Sam’s head pounded in recent memory. “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Bobby downed it in one gulp. “I can’t believe that boy did it. I mean, if I had known…” Sam saw his eyes mist up, his jaw clench in place. He slapped a pile of papers to the ground. They fell with a loud thud that shook in Sam’s ears. “Dammit, Dean!” he yelled. His breathing picked up, then slowed.

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” Sam assured him, “We’ll get him back.”

“I know.” Bobby rolled his eyes. He wrung his hands uselessly in the air. “Don’t mean it don’t hurt to see a man put a gun against his head and fire.”

Sam’s heart thrummed in agreement. There was a furnace burning down there, hot and huge like the sun, filling his lungs with anger and pumping cold ashes of hate through his veins. He wanted to find Michael and rip him apart. Piece by piece. Though he’d deserve much worse…

“You alright, Sam?” Stupid, stupid question. A bizarre thought dropped into his head without warning, and suddenly, Sam pictured himself taking his hands to Bobby’s throat and squeezing, squeezing until his hands dug purple marks into his flesh.

The guilt came, sudden as a tsunami. All of a sudden, Sam felt like crying. First the weird thoughts popping into his head, then the demon blood dream, then this  _ anger  _ that seemed to writhe in him like a nest of snakes - what could possibly be next?

_ I think the better question is  _ who’s  _ going to be next,  _ a voice in his head whispered.  _ First Dean, now Bobby, then what? _

No… no. This was just his past ( _ The Gate,  _ his mind whispered) coming back to bite him in the ass. Speaking of which-

“Sam?” The name carried a heavy undertone of  _ What’s wrong? _

“When I was tracking down Dean,” Sam explained, “He lost me somewhere around Ohio. Maybe if I’d caught up with him before, I could have-”

“Sam,” Bobby interrupted. “Dean knew what he was doing. Nothing and no one can stop that boy once he puts his mind to something, even when he’s being a stupid idjit. Especially then.”

“Right,” Sam agreed, but the word rang hollow in his ears. “I had no idea where he was going until I heard something speak in my mind. It was like… like my old visions.” The admission was tougher than Sam thought it would be. He hated the way Bobby was looking at  him now, like he was some kind of circus freak. A monster. And honestly, after what Sam had just been thinking, he couldn’t blame him.

“Are you sure you ain’t just crazy?”

“Bobby, I wish I was.”

“Yeah,” Bobby mumbled. “Me too.” His eyes flicked downwards. “You haven’t been drinking… well, you know…” His eyebrows raised again.

After all this time, Bobby still didn’t trust him. Sam felt that anger flare up inside him again, and had to struggle to keep it contained in the thin walls of his chest. “No,” he answered. The relief on Bobby’s face was almost worse than the question. He’d really, actually thought that Sam would-

(blood on his fingers up to his neck in the)

(was it a dream?)

Yes, Sam decided. It was. He didn’t want to think about the implications of it being real. Maybe the Dean part had been, maybe, but the rest was nonsense that he should shove into one of the dusty black shelves at the back of his head.

The problem was, he’d already tried that. It kept getting pushed to the front, shining like the merchandise a store owner always puts on display to disguise whatever toys lie torn and broken behind it. Sam knew he wasn’t ready yet to face whatever shapes lurked behind the bad dream, although he’d seen them up close and personal not too long ago. It had to have been months now, but in Sam’s mind, it felt like ten years had passed between now and then. Between now and

(The Gate.)

The thought was strong and secure in his head. It rang like the gong of a brass bell, long and low and deep. He felt the truth of it echo through him, but he wasn’t ready for the truth of what had happened then, not yet. Instead he thought of a time when Yellow-Eyes had been alive, when his powers had started to rear their ugly head. He’d had visions before, yes, but never voices. Though he remembered a Special Child (as the Demon liked to call them) that could put thoughts like that in people’s heads. He’d sent Dean a picture of a bell once, a lifetime ago. When the Roadhouse burned down.

It seemed like wherever they went, people died, Sam realized. What was he doing, dragging Bobby into his problems? They had enough to deal with already.

“I don’t know what it was, Bobby,” Sam admitted. “What I do know is that we’ve got one hell of a mess on our hands.”

“Well, you’re right about that.” Suddenly Bobby was rummaging around in his desk, shoving the whiskey aside to make room for a string of articles that he looped around the desk.

“Apocalypse omens are everywhere,” he said flatly. “But this one” - he pulled one of the smallest clippings to the front - “Is the grandaddy of them all.”

The title was simple:

The title was simple: “There’s a New Savior in Town.”

Sam didn’t understand. “Bobby, what-”

“Just the read the article.”

He did, and his eyes got wider with each paragraph. The first spoke of a man named Father Price, who’d hung himself in his sanctuary after finding the bodies of thirteen dead nuns on the floor, their eyes mysteriously melted in their sockets; the next spoke of a man named Nick, who’d led the charge against him; the third spoke of a horrible church fire.

The last, short paragraph said only this:

_ “Nick’s bold actions have shown us that the only way we can reach salvation is by purging ourselves of wicked blood. His holy fire has cleansed this town. May it cleanse us still.” _

Sam almost had to laugh at the blatant ridiculousness of it all. Lucifer had practically spelled out for them where he was, if the writer’s crackpot “journalism” was to be believed. Still, it lined up… Hadn’t Lucifer told him once, in a dream, that the body he now wore (his “improvisation,” as he put it) was named Nick? He thought so. Still, there had to be another explanation. Lucifer just wouldn’t spell out where he was, especially now that Michael was on the playing board. It wouldn’t make any sense.

“It looks like he’s taken a page out of the Whore of Babylon’s book,” Sam remarked, letting the paper float slowly down to Bobby’s desk. “Could just be a demon, right?”

“I don’t know, Sam. The burned out eyes sound like angel work to me. And angels don’t murder nuns for kicks. Not unless they’re Lucifer.” Bobby’s eyes met his, and Sam saw that his own blank, controlled expression was fooling no one.

“Bobby, why are you telling me this? I want to be as far away from him as possible.”

“People are dying, Sam. There’s something evil in that town,” Bobby growled. “Listen, I know the risks, but Sam, who knows more about Lucifer than you?”

“Right. So, say I get there. What am I supposed to do to stop  _ the devil _ ? Because it sure as hell didn’t work last time.” Jo and Ellen’s terrified faces swam into Sam’s head, and with an effort, he pushed them down. He could see them in Bobby’s eyes too; his cheeks grew gray and old for just a second, older than they had any right to be.

“I’m not asking you to stop him,” Bobby corrected. “I’m asking you to break whatever curse he put on this town. Save the people before it’s too late.”

“Then why me?” Sam spat. “I’m his vessel. Couldn’t you choose someone else?”

Bobby looked around in dismay. “In case you haven’t noticed, boy, there is no one else. Unless you can find another person that can stand up against the devil without dying in point-two seconds.”

Sam shook his head, but he was starting to think Bobby had a point. “Where’d you find this thing, anyway?” Sam asked, gesturing towards the article.

“On a crackpot Christian blog online,” Bobby shrugged.

Sam grinned. “So you finally decided to live in the 21st century.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, boy,” Bobby warned, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve been watching it for a while. Seemed like your usual group of crazies until this guy Nick’s name started to show up.”

“Let me see.” Sam pulled his laptop from his bag and slid it in front of Bobby, who looked now like a deer caught in headlights. A pang echoed through Sam’s bones; if Dean were here, he’d be making some vague smartass comment about that. The idea of that seemed so real for a second that Sam could almost see Dean sitting behind him, just out of sight, bringing a beer to his lips.

_ No no no we’re not thinking about that now, not when there’s a job _

_ (and  _ HE’S  _ there maybe but why) _

Bobby finally made his way onto the webpage and shoved the laptop back into Sam’s arms like he was relieved to be rid of the thing. Sam’s eyes roamed up and down the webpage; it was an informal forum type of site, covered with cheesy images of crosses and doves. The author of the article had posted a long string of entries. They had started fairly normal, reporting on church potlucks and whatnot, but by the end were full of strange, cultish Christian ideas. Sam looked at the username: grace_morrison268.

A phone rang. Both Bobby and Sam glanced over to Bobby’s infamous Wall of Phones and saw the one marked “F.B.I.” shaking in its socket. Bobby looked from Sam to the phone back to Sam and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. “Good luck,” Bobby told him. Sam nodded in response, but Bobby was already making his way across the room. Oh well. He understood, anyway; some poor bastard hunter posing as an F.B.I. agent needed his help right now. Sam had called in that favor more than once himself.

That was Bobby. Even in a wheelchair, the guy was pretty much the hub of the wheel that connected the Hunting world. He had connections from California to Maine to South America and God knew where else. He spoke at least six languages and could write in more. The guy was the kind of hunter everyone aspired to be, smart yet strong yet surprisingly kind underneath his rough exterior. But more than any of those things, he was  _ Bobby.  _ Gruff, intelligent, kickass Bobby who’d once kicked a Rugaru in the nuts because it pissed him off. Who’d been like a father to him and Dean since before he could remember.

Sam remembered all of these things and more, and decided to trust him. Most of all, he remembered one of Bobby’s favorite sayings:  _ Family don’t end in blood, boy. _

Blood. It seemed like all of his problems started and ended there. At least he had the grim satisfaction that since he and Bobby weren’t related, Bobby wasn’t in danger of being abducted by angels anytime soon. Then again, when angels got desperate, they were capable of doing anything.

Sam shrugged away the thought. It made a shiver travel up his spine, one that he guessed foreshadowed what was coming down the road for him. _Ah, well,_ Sam thought, _Might as well get it over with._ So he found the Impala and took off with her again down that familiar gravel road, leading her through the two-lane asphalt that seemed to stretch from Maryland to  Texas to Oregon like arteries in the great, hulking beast of America. The image seemed to stretch endlessly in Sam’s mind, and suddenly, he felt very small.


	6. Chapter 6

The store was quiet, too quiet. Evan Briggs, proud owner of Briggs’ Quality Handmade Suits was standing behind his counter like he did every day, in the exact spot he’d stood on for twenty-six years now. Normally, this gave him comfort; he loved his job more than anything, but now he wondered idly if he shouldn’t go home early. He could sense something was in the air. It was hard to put his finger on it, but it was there all the same. It was only his love for his work that made him shove the feeling back and continue wiping the polished glass of the counter.

The bell jingled. A small sound, merry and light. He looked up and saw a man walk through the door. He was handsome, he thought, maybe late twenties, early thirties. He wore faded jeans and a torn-up t-shirt, which was strange, because the rest of him radiated cleanliness like a lightbulb radiates heat. Briggs couldn’t see a speck of dirt on his face, not even the slightest whisker of a hair to suggest that this man was normal. That he was even  _ human. _

He almost chuckled at the thought. He was going senile in his old age. Maybe it was time to listen to his son and retire.

“What can I do for you?” he greeted the man cheerfully. The man said nothing. He only looked down at Briggs, and for a moment, Briggs was struck by the  _ power  _ he saw in his eyes; for a second, he thought this man might be a prince or a king, like the ones you read about in storybooks.

The man laughed. “I’m nothing like that, Evan,” he said, as if in direct answer to his thoughts. How had he known his first name? It wasn’t on his nametag. “Though if it gives you comfort to think of me that way, you may.” He hadn’t said his thoughts out loud, had he? He must have. Senile.

“Who… who are you?” Briggs stuttered.

The man smiled, but would say no more. “I came for a suit, Mr. Briggs. Something to make me more… presentable.” For a second, Briggs saw a flicker of disgust cross his face. He looked down at his torn clothes like they were maggots rotting on his skin.

_ This guy really must be royalty,  _ Briggs thought.  _ Or at least a millionaire.  _ He didn’t seem used to wearing commoner’s clothes, anyway. His heart leapt at the concept; a big-name buyer could mean big business for the store, which had fallen on hard times as of late. Maybe this was a gift from God. 

If only he’d known how right he was.

He searched excitedly for his measuring tape, pulling it out in thin yellow strands and pressing it quickly against the buyer’s arms, legs, shoulders, the same dance he’d done ten thousand times before.

“Right this way.” Briggs beckoned him over to a rack of his size. The dance really started then, because this guy didn’t just want the suit, he wanted the whole outfit. When Briggs told him he didn’t stock shoes, the guy had disappeared in the blink of an eye and been back just as fast. He’d blinked, and almost convinced himself it was just a trick of the light. But when Briggs  looked down, he saw something that made his heart stop: The man was now carrying a pair of highly polished, very expensive dress shoes. Senile. He had to be. And he just had to be going crazy when a potentially high-class buyer came into town, because that was just the best possible time, right?

Well, maybe he wasn’t the only one. Once the man had picked out everything he needed, he’d simply stripped down in the middle of the store and begun to pull it on.

“Excuse me… excuse me, sir, what are you doing?” Briggs asked timidly. He was suddenly very aware of the glass windows lining the wall around the front door. The man wasn’t bothering to dress quickly, either; he stared at his clothes with the same fascination a scientist would have when dissecting a particularly rare kind of bug.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to change in the changing rooms,” Briggs sputtered, but one look from the man’s eyes stopped him cold. The man was starting to get annoyed, and Briggs sensed in some vague form that this was not the sort of person you wanted to get on the bad side of. Luckily, the man only paused for a second and continued to pull on the clothes.

_ That look in his eyes… He must be mafia,  _ Briggs thought, and shuddered. Once all of the clothes had been safely put on, Briggs hurriedly pulled the mirror in front of him, the last and crucial step of his deal-making dance. The man seemed to regard himself in the mirror for a second. Briggs noticed for the second time that the man was indeed very handsome, even if he didn’t swing that way. He just seemed like the sort of person you would expect to see in a suit, all formal and neat and full of that too-clean look that made his skin glisten strangely in the sunlight seeping through the smudged windows of the shop. The man turned away, finally, and appeared to be satisfied. He looked down at the clothes on the floor. Then, without a split second of warning, they caught on fire.

Briggs was astounded for a moment; then he brought his hands together and started to clap. He turned to the man, smiling. “Wait a second - you’re a magician, aren’t you? You look just like that one I saw on TV!” With this explanation, all was made clear: the shoes, the mind reading, the mysterious aura that seemed to surround him. Yes, that explained everything! Everything was going to be alright.

Instead of smiling in agreement, the man turned with a sudden fury in his eyes. Briggs felt phantom hands slam him across the room, pinning him to his beloved counter. He tried to scream, tried to run away, but found he couldn’t move, and that scared him most of all. Who the hell was this man? Who the hell… who…

The man walked closer, and Briggs saw he didn’t look like that man on TV at all. He’d convinced himself as much, the last desperate fantasy of a senile old man. Who’s to say any of this was real at all? In a few seconds he might wake up in bed, and the first thing he’d do when he went into work was retire.

“I am  _ not  _ a magician,” the man snarled. His eyes were huge, wild, and filled with a power that alternatively drew Briggs toward him and made him want to flinch away in fear. It shone from every corner of the man’s being, and 

_ (the Glory of the Lord shone down upon them and they were terrified) _

Where had that thought come from? Oh what the hell, he didn’t care, because he saw in the man’s eyes a fire, the holy, righteous fire of his death looming closer with each step of the man’s thousand-dollar dress shoes.

“I do not do simple human parlor tricks!” The man growled. His voice filled every corner of the room. It rumbled with the force of it, shaking with the complete sound of the words echoing over and over and over in Briggs’ mind. He screamed, and felt with faint alarm the feeling of warm blood flowing from his ears. Still, the man’s voice echoed not in his ears now but in his  _ brain _ of all places, that great senile loony bin sitting like a useless sponge in his skull.

And now the man’s lip was curling, his perfect face tightening into a mask of rage. “You want to know who I am?”

Briggs felt a horrible curiosity bubble inside him, and against any of his base instincts, he kept looking in the man’s face. Then something started to happen, slowly at first, but soon Briggs saw this wonderful glow of light  _ everywhere,  _ hot and close and piercing. He barely felt the pain. He only looked forward and became one of the few to see the true face of the man he had so naively welcomed into his small store on the corner of Main Street on a city on a planet smaller than a speck of dust. The thing breathed its essence through him.  _ Michael,  _ Briggs realized,  _ his name is Michael.  _ He felt his eyes melt and drip painfully down his cheeks like slimy tears, but still he smiled. His lips stretched and stretched endlessly over his teeth, and there they stuck, even as the life drained out of him in a faint gasp and his lifeless corpse fell to the ground, bowing before the man in death.

Michael only glanced at his body with a slight twinge of regret. This was not the face of a righteous man; Evan Briggs had done things a long time ago, things that Briggs had remembered but never regretted. The kingdom of heaven did not belong to such as these.

Michael turned again to the mirror and regarded his reflection. When he looked at himself, he didn’t see a speck of Dean Winchester. The suit had been the last step. Michael remembered getting dressed after showering, still feeling that slight ping of recognition Dean felt for the cloth on his back. Of course, he’d had to do away with that completely. So he’d gone on a little road trip inside Dean’s head, searching endlessly for the most uncomfortable memory he could find. And, of course, the first thing he’d found was Dean’s hatred of suits.

Michael actually kind of liked it. It was clean, comfortable. Presentable. To humans, it was a status symbol of wealth and power. It would at least make his utter dominance over them that much more clear. Although it wasn’t like Michael hated humans by any stretch; he simply wanted them to know their place. Just as Dean now knew his.

Michael closed his eyes and searched his mind again. He found Dean’s head under the waves, sinking deeper, deeper, endlessly deep into his subconscious. For a second, Michael felt grace; Dean had done what had been asked of him. So he grasped a memory he found suitable and tossed it in after him. It could not be said that he wasn’t a gracious host.

* * *

Dean drowned forever. It was over, now; it was done. He could feel it. He’d been fighting for so long, struggling to keep his face above the waves, that it almost felt good to let the water close over his head.

He’d thought the drowning would hurt. He remembered hearing stories of how people’s lungs would scrape for air, burning in an invisible fire before they eventually stretched on their own, filling with that hydrating, life-giving poison like water balloons. But it wasn’t like that at all. Because as he fell, he felt for the first time that the waves weren’t  _ real.  _ Nothing in here was  _ real.  _ He hoped that what he’d seen glimpses of were only a mirage as well.

He’d seen glimpses of a shower, little shots of a man and a suit and eyes running like jelly over a blind man’s smile. And he’d seen Sammy here, too, and he knew in some faint way that that should be impossible. But all of that was fading away now. He was just floating down, suspended in the water that wasn’t water but the gentle, buffeting weight of  _ him.  _ It was so peaceful down here, he thought. So safe. So-

_ “Mommy?” Dean croaked. He tugged his blankie tighter around his shoulders, trying to draw strength from the crooked grin of Holes the Mouse smiling up at him. It worked a little, but he knew he’d feel so much better if his Mommy was with him. Because while Holes was smart and brave in his TV show, it always seemed like he needed to be saved by a Grownup. _

_ The thing in his closet shifted, drawing its shadow to the right side of the crack under the door. Dean huddled Holes closer. He had the awful feeling that it would seep out of there any moment, oozing in this sticky pile of darkness that would crawl up his bed like the Slime Monster he’d seen Daddy watching on TV and grab his toes, sucking the meat from his bones in no-time-flat. As he thought this, he could almost see it happen; almost smell its goopy scent, moist and wet like blood... _

_ “MOMMY!” Dean screamed. _

_ Then Mommy was there, almost kicking down the door, her blonde hair trailing her face in a beautiful gold halo. “Dean, what’s wrong?” she panted. _

_ He couldn’t stand it anymore, just couldn’t, and burst into tears. Mommy ran to his side and held him then, just rocking him back and forth, purring sweet words into his ears. Dean cried harder. Then, she did what she hadn’t done in a long time: she started to sing. _

_ “Hey Jude, don’t make it bad…” _

_ Dean’s crying stopped as suddenly as it started. He wiped the tears from his eyes. _

_ “Take a sad song, and make it better,” his mother half-whispered, working her hands through his hair. _

_ “Remember, to let her into your heart…” she poked a long finger into his chest, and Dean giggled. _

_ “Then you can start to make it better,” she finished. Dean’s heart glowed where she’d touched it; he knew he could take down ten monsters, ten thousand monsters if he wanted to now. He wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed his face into her warm chest. _

_ “Seriously, Dean-O, what’s bothering you?” she asked gently when his tears faded. _

_ “There’s a monster in my closet,” Dean mumbled. Snot and spit rolled down as one into Mommy’s white jammies, but she didn’t seem to care, and that was good. He didn’t want to go to time-out.  _

_ She pulled him away carefully, settling him back into his original place on the bed. Dean hated that, but she was close, at least, and that was okay. He wasn’t a baby anymore, so he could stand it for a while longer. _

_ “Oh, Dean, you don’t ever need to be afraid,” she told him, her eyes shining. “Angels are watching over you.” She stood up, then, and pointed out the small stone angel sitting on the shelf above his bed. Dean had never really liked it much; he’d thought it was babyish, but now it seemed to hold some kind of unknown strength. He wondered what kind of power could lie  _ _ behind those eyes, power that even a Grownup could believe in. Then she gave Dean a final peck on the cheek and went to leave. “Your Daddy and I will be right downstairs,” she said, and Dean’s heart sank in his chest. But he had to be strong. Daddy would want him to be. _

_ “Okay,” Dean mumbled. The door shut. The closet shook, that dark sticky shape growing, spreading, searching again in his Mind’s Eye, and Dean pictured it harder in his head and saw it had black, black eyes, dark as night, and he realized that this thing wasn’t the blob monster but the great Demon he’d seen a picture of in one of Mommy’s secret books, before she’d pulled it out of his hands and made him sit in time-out for a long, long time. _

_ Dean reached for his lamp with small, sweaty fingers that felt much too little in the bumpy grip of the pull chain. He could hear the Demon laughing in his ears, taunting him, smiling with bright white teeth coated in blood. And his arm was out from the bed now, vulnerable, where it could be twisted and turned and bitten to pieces… Dean could feel another scream building in his throat, but managed to yank the chain just as he pictured the Great Thing leaping towards him. _

_ His heart pounded in his ears. That had been too close. He leapt from his bed, swinging his feet out far so the monster couldn’t grab at his ankles under the bedsprings. He ran, his bare feet slapping against the cold wood floor, his fingers reaching, reaching desperately for the small desk chair looming like a fortress in the dim lamplight. He seized it, pulled it to the foot of his bed, and scrambled up its smooth surface. His hands searched upwards, then found what they so desperately needed: the little stone angel tottered for a moment, then fell smoothly into his small grip. Then he scrambled down the chair leg, bolted into the safety of his bed and turned off the light before the Demon could crawl out of his bedsprings and smile that horrible, horrible grin as it oozed its way over him and covered his head and ears and nose with his blood because that’s what it wanted, that’s what it needed most of all. And sometimes its eyes were coyote-yellow and sometimes they were black, and that was weird, but that scared Dean, too. But now he wasn’t alone. He took the little stone angel in his arms and squeezed it tight to his chest, kept it there until the first morning light broke through the gaps in his racecar curtains. The Demon never bothered him again. At least, not until Sammy showed up- _

Sammy? Dean thought blankly. No, I’m not here, I’m drowning, I’m

_ “Mommy?” Dean croaked. He tugged his blankie tighter around his shoulders, trying to draw strength from the crooked grin of Holes the Mouse smiling up at him. It worked a little, but he knew he’d feel so much better if his Mommy was with him… _


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this is the last chapter I'm going to post for now. If people really want more, I'll write more, but for now I'll leave this here for you guys to enjoy. I'm going to shelve this while I tackle another project I'm really excited about (hint: it rhymes with Sandalorian).
> 
> Meanwhile, I do have something planned for Bobby going forward. I can't help it, I love the old bastard.

Sam brought the Impala to a grinding halt three miles outside the city limits. He wasn’t about to risk his luck and find a motel in town, with all of the crazies milling around. Normally, by this part of the hunt, he’d be wearing his Fed suit, but this time he’d left it neatly folded in his suitcase. He figured the authorities in this town wouldn’t be able to help him. Hell, he’d be willing to bet a few of them had helped set fire to that church.

So he trekked his way across the eerily empty two-lane road, stopping only briefly to read the sign that had once proclaimed this to be the  TOWN OF GREELEY, ILLINOIS . Someone had crossed out the name with crude red spray paint and written beneath it a single word:  **HAVEN** .

The word sent a chill up Sam’s spine. He touched the spray paint and found it was still wet; whoever had drawn this couldn’t be far away. So he walked with caution, sparing a stray glance every which way every few seconds until he found himself walking on the empty sidewalks of the town’s Main Street. He wasn’t entirely unsurprised to see that the stores he passed by were all deserted.

“Hello?” he shouted. There was no answer save for an echo. “Hello?”

“Shh!” Sam whipped his head around and saw a kid, maybe ten years old, crouching with a finger to his lips. “Quiet down! They’ll hear you!” he hissed.

“Who?”

“Shh!” The kid took Sam by the hand and pulled him behind a wall. They stayed pressed against it while the kid paused and cast several furtive looks towards the street. After a long pause, he sighed in relief and began to walk down the far side of the alley.

“You’re one stupid sonofabitch, you know that?” the kid told him. Sam blinked. The kid’s gruff tone reminded him oddly of his older brother at age ten. “This town doesn’t like newcomers. You should leave while you still can,” the kid said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam followed him at a distance, still wary.

“They took the last newbie and strung him up on a pole,” the kid said matter-of-factly. “Real nice guy, too. But they didn’t care. They never do.”

The kid looked up at him quizzically. “What are you doing in a place like this, anyway?”

“I came to help,” Sam explained.

The kid narrowed his eyes at him for a moment, then burst into a bout of silent laughter. “Well, good luck, mister,” the kid giggled. “Think you can take this whole town by yourself, huh? Because no one but me is going to help you in Haven.” He started down the alley again. “Come on, Superman,” he beckoned, his eyes still twinkling. Sam hesitated, then followed him into the shadows ahead.

Three right turns and two lefts later, Sam found himself following the kid into the kind of residential street you would see in every suburb across America. The kid looked left, then right, then whispered to Sam:    


“No sudden moves, okay? Keep your face hidden.” Sam nodded. He didn’t know what it was about this kid, but he didn’t seem all bad. He was at least his only lead to what was going on in this place.

They walked across the street, quickly but not too quickly, trying to act casual. Sam kept his head down, but he could’ve sworn he saw a curtain move in a window out of the corner of his eye. _We're not alone,_ Sam thought, and felt a chill of unease work its way up his spine.

* * *

Michael hadn’t been hard to find. He hadn’t strayed far from where he’d touched down on Earth, probably more out of a sense of stupid bravado than anything else. Trying to say,  _ Come and get me, you little bitch!  _ to Lucifer, for all the good it would do. Neither of them were going to attack yet, because Lucifer hadn’t sealed his end of the deal. The only thing standing between the world of now and total annihilation was Sam’s  _ yes. _

That wasn’t a comforting thought to Castiel. He needed to get Dean out, and fast, or Lucifer was going to get to Sam in some way or another. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sam- well, yes, it  _ was _ that he didn’t trust Sam. He’d put his faith in Sam before, and Sam had failed miserably. Sam, at the very least, seemed to know this. Castiel could see him wallow in the shame of it every day. Well, Castiel had made mistakes, too. He hoped that whatever he did here made up for them, on some grand cosmic scheme, although the idea was almost fantastical.

Michael had “set up shop,” as Dean would say, in a small store with a faded sign that read  _ Briggs’ Quality Handmade Suits. _ The storefront, which Castiel supposed must have been originally covered in windows, was now nothing but an empty rectangle of gleaming glass shrapnel. There were no humans in sight. This struck him as strange in a street lined with popular chain stores.

There was a rustle of wings behind him. Castiel turned, and found two angels at his back.

“Hello, Castiel,” one of them greeted. He recognized her as Muriel, a low-level angel he hadn’t been able to talk to much.

“I am here to speak with Michael,” Castiel stated, making his voice level.

Muriel smirked. “What a coincidence. We were about to bring you to him ourselves.”

They hovered around him like nervous bodyguards as he neared the building, feeling the glass crunch underneath his feet. The door rang with a small peal of bells.

The store itself was small. There was a long, wooden counter on the left side, and everywhere else you could look there were endless racks of suits and undershirts and ties hanging neatly from the blank necks of mannequins like silk nooses. Some of the racks had been pushed to the side to create a straight hallway towards where a single angel sat in a folding chair. He sat so regally in it that you might have guessed he was sitting in a throne.

Castiel fell to his knees, feeling the cool tiles crack under his weight. He hadn’t meant to do that, but he was nervous, and he did stupid things when he felt that way. The thoroughly human emotion was making his heart pound double-time, a sensation he found annoying and oddly endearing at the same time. He had to admit that experiencing human emotions had its downsides, but Castiel wouldn’t have traded the feeling of free will for the world.

And here he was, doing that very thing. He bent his head, unable even to look at his former captor. His former friend. Now neither, and both.

“Rise, Castiel,” Michael commanded. His voice rang with notes of authority Castiel had never heard brought out of Dean’s throat. It was at the same time familiar and foreign; he remembered the ring of that tone well from Heaven, how he had listened to it from the first moment he’d emerged into the light. Maybe that was why a little part of him was glad he was back where he  _ belonged _ . The rest of him screamed in Dean Winchester’s voice (his real voice) to shut the hell up. He had his free will, and there would be a good day in Hell before Michael could ever take it away from him completely.

“I appreciate that you came to me first,” Michael announced. His voice carried easily to the other angels in the room, though he probably shouldn’t have bothered; each word echoed in their skulls like the ring of a gong, scrambling whatever human brains were left in their vessels. Castiel saw blood burble in thick, chunky streams from their ears. They didn’t seem to care.

He touched his own and felt that same wetness. Although he never would’ve understood the analogy, what Castiel most felt like in that moment was the ten year old that wets the bed at night; unable to help himself, but ashamed because he should know better. He wasn’t in the same league anymore as the empty beings that surrounded him. They’d never truly felt, never truly loved. Castiel wished he could teach them, but now was not the time or the place. First and foremost, he’d come for Dean Winchester. Which also meant, in sum, that he’d come for Michael.

Castiel hurriedly checked his eyes to make sure they weren’t melting as well; thankfully, they seemed to be intact. He guessed Michael wanted someone to be able to gaze upon the glory of his new vessel. He’d killed enough humans trying to show it off already.

“Look at me, Castiel,” Michael ordered. He did, but it was hard, very hard. He couldn’t help seeing Dean Winchester behind the archangel’s cold, hard eyes. “I know this must be hard for you,” Michael sympathized. “I know Dean Winchester meant a lot to you. But he has accepted his destiny. And now I see that you have accepted yours.”

Castiel forced himself to nod. “All I ask for is forgiveness,” he pleaded. “The humans clouded my judgement. They told me to believe in free will. But now I see there is no such thing.”

Michael seemed pleased by this answer. He should be, considering the circumstances of how he’d gotten his vessel. Yes, Dean had been an adamant member of Team Free Will at the start, but in the end, he’d folded faster than a floppy tortilla, just like Michael said he would. Castiel felt a new jolt of anger and betrayal rock through him at the thought, but sucked it back in in vain hope Michael wouldn’t notice. He shelved it for later. He’d have a few things to say to Dean when they got him out again.

“Very well.” Michael considered the statement. He adjusted the sleeves of his brand-new suit, a very un-like Dean gesture. “In the name of my Father, I forgive you for your crimes as a sign of my everlasting Grace. Though there will be a small punishment, you understand.”

Castiel nodded. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. Heaven’s idea of a “small” punishment was far from little; try gut-wrenching hours of torture. Still, he heard it was better than what the angels got who were locked away in prison up there. He’d been about one wrong move from being with them.

“You were always a good soldier, Castiel,” Michael was saying thoughtfully. “I can still sense the love you have for me.”

_ That’s not for you, dipshit,  _ Castiel thought, and heard his inner Dean voice roar in approval. _ It’s for the skin you’re wearing. _

“You will play an important role in the upcoming battle,” Michael continued. “Just remember that it was my grace that put you there.” Then he flicked an absentminded hand and two angels came forward, taking Castiel by the arms. He had no choice but to let himself be flown far, far away, back into the cold, harsh light of Heaven. Home sweet home.


End file.
